The clock it struck, twelve times
Or would have if it had those chimes
No matter, dear, you get my meaning
The hour is late, my mind starts dreaming.
"Of what?", you ask, "Pray tell", you say
I must write, quick, before it's day.
Though more than that, I might forget
And then, I would so much regret,
The loss of a work, perhaps of art
Or even just feeling happy in heart.
My brain, it works, oh joy behold
I hope I can keep this thought controlled.
Whether it lasts one minute or one hour
I feel a flow of oh, such power.
As I go to sleep on this dark night
I smile and think, yes, I'm alright.
Copyright (c) Duncan N. Cunningham - 23/05/96